Ashes to ashes or maybe not?
by Crytyk
Summary: From the gates of death and ashes of sorrow returns to life a young hero (are you sure he's a hero?) to upset the fragile balance that stretches across the shinobi nations. Watch as he tastes the fruits of forbidden knowledge and plots in partnership with an enemy of humankind. But will he keep his mind whole, or will the fox get what we all know he wants (world domination?)?
1. Aftermath

**Disclaimer: **1st time admitting to the non-ownership of Naruto and its universe. I am simply making it a better place.

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**Rating: **Pretty much what you would expect from a fic revolving around shinobi: violence, language, suggestive themes, and so on.

**Pairings: **The reason there is no pairing listed is quite simple: this is not a romance fic. There could be romance, there could be sex . . . there could be a lot of things here; but it's first and foremost action/adventure/drama. If you read Naruto fanfiction for the sole purpose of finding pairings that you like, then this is the wrong place. There is also not going to be any harems. I'm not a fan, so that's that. And no yaoi. Maybe yuri, but only mildly and in side-side-characters.

**Summary: **It's so hard writing even a vague summary without spoiling anything. Still, I can at least give you guys a few titbits that aren't plot-related: this is a realistic shinobi experience, in many ways much different then what canon dictates. Yes, there will still be flashy battles and all that, but done in ways that don't make you want to cut yourself to escape how ridiculous some of this anime is—especially considering that this is a show about ninjas! Anyway, Naruto will be . . . different. He won't be an ignorant, naïve, orange jump-suit with rocks for brains. And he will actually kill people! You know, cause he's a damn ninja? Honestly, you should probably try reading this before judging.

**Furthermore: **No beta, so there are bound to be all sorts of errors here and there. If you see them, and aren't too lazy, I do ask you to speak up so that I can either correct them or learn from my mistakes. Thanks!

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** The Aftermath**

Sake, they say, unmakes the mind. Its attributes, while wholly able to bestow upon the user a temporary haven from all the life's troubles, also have the potential to rot and corrupt; leaving but a husk of one's former self. In most cases, it is the former that draws attention, while the latter is kept out of mind and rarely ever analyzed. It is, after all, the nature of humanity to choose between what to make a reality and what to neglect—despite knowing, somewhere in the depths of their minds, that reality is not _created_ by their own minds, but rather interpreted by the mind in a way that brings most benefit. So whether a thing _is_ or _isn't _matters little, simply because human nature demands satisfaction; and satisfaction demands a world drawn in a certain way, painted by a certain color, and run in a certain way. —Anything off path is to be left for the very last page . . . a page rarely reached.

Such a funny thing, the mind. So funny, and yet so sad. Here he was, trying to battle his own thoughts, numbing the mind with poison as to prevent himself from actual thought. And, quite honestly, it was working. Had he not just spent hours upon hours analyzing the substance which he wished worked just a little better? _Why, in the name of kami, won't they make sake for shinobi? _The watered-down version worked wonders on civilians, but for someone like himself . . . He sighed.

_It isn't fair_, he though, _that I'm even alive. _It really wasn't. But, then, _life isn't fair. _It had never been, and it never will. That, at the very least, was never up for question. What was up—he tensed, interrupting his train of thought. Even in such a sorry state, he still couldn't miss the stir in the air and the change of pressure in the room signifying the entrance of a "guest." The identity of whom easily revealed by the unique chakra patterns that every individual possessed. Bringing his head up and locking in on the darkest corner of the room with his eyes, he steeled his expression and inquired, "Yes?"

The figure molded out of the shadows, matted white mask appearing as if out of nowhere, followed by the dark attire reserved for the Anbu. "Hokage-sama," was uttered with a slight bow at the waist, "there has been an . . . _altercation_ at the hospital." The hesitancy was impossible to miss.

Hiruzen Sarutobi, years ago appointed Hokage for a second time in his life, couldn't help but feel unnamed dread disperse throughout his body, sobering his mind nearly at once. He knew, deep down in his old bones, that the news his Anbu had come to report weren't going to bring anything but more _pain._

Without another second of thought, the Hokage of the Leaf vitalized his body to appropriate scale and flickered away through the open window in a seal-less and silent Shunshin, leaving nothing but an empty seat and a soon-to-follow Anbu.

* * *

Years of practice, hundreds upon hundreds of hours of experience, and there were still surprises on the job. Usually, those surprises only held back progress momentarily—because with enough accumulated knowledge between the hospital's med-nin, problems just seemed to disappear. This time, however, things were different. Very, very different.

Ryou Kanpo swore, unable to believe just how cruel humanity could be. How . . . misguided. _It shouldn't be all that difficult to believe, really, _he thought, _having seen all that I have. Still, this reaches a new low! _He shook his head, trying to clear his mind . . . then slapped himself. "Ow."

_What the hell am I doing? I need to prepare something! Anything! _The Hokage would, undeniably, be there soon and Ryou would _not _simply stand there silently without an explanation. And that's when his focus, once again, settled back on the real world and, more importantly, the operating table. He noticed that his staff was still at it. Why? Why would they still waste time on such a lost cause? Why waste manpower? Why . . . _Right! Shit! The Hokage! _Ryou's hand found itself pressing against his forehead as if to push away the fear of potential repercussions for letting someone to close to the Hokage die. And . . . in a such a way, too.

Clearing his throat, he shouted, "On the double, people! Do whatever is necessary to bring that boy back to life!"

"Yes, Kanpo-san," was the answer from multiple directions in varying tones—some actually energetic enough to sound hopeful, some stoic as stone, some anguished (which he couldn't quite understand, as it was _his own _ass on the line), and the rest completely resigned. To be truthful, he would have been of the endmost kind if this case wasn't so damn important. As it was, however, he had to at least _act_ like it wasn't yet over. The Hokage, while usually quite docile, had been known to literally _crush _people's heads in retribution to any damage dealt to a certain boy—a boy who, regrettably, was now rather . . . _dead_ on a table in Konoha's star hospital. Of which, catastrophically, Ryou Kanpo was the head of.

"Shinigami, take me now," he whispered, feeling another headache approaching with a vengeance. His palm again found itself leaving an indent on its owner's cheek with a resonating strike seemingly all on its own. "_Ow_."

* * *

The wordless departure all in itself wasn't exactly much of a surprise if the circumstances were taken into consideration, but the abruptness with which it happened still washed the Anbu with slight surprise. It wasn't everyday, after all, that the Hokage let slip his true prowess in the shinobi arts. The Shunshin was . . . sudden. Having been in the Anbu for the last decade or so and having seen all the crazy that came with it, it shouldn't have come as a surprise that there were still people out there that could literally kill him within a blink of an eye—without actually needing to resort to stealth of any kind. Yet, it was still quite unexpected.

He had almost forgotten that his Hokage—usually a figure of mere leadership and wisdom—was also often referred to as the "_God of Shinobi_." The moniker wasn't, after all, just a barren title. _If such a name is bestowed upon a nin on the battlefield, it is more than likely deserved. I will remember this. _Better to overestimate than to underestimate, after all.

_Still, _he thought, chasing off a shudder, _that was perhaps the most well-performed Shunshin I've ever witnessed. It was perfect. If I wasn't sure that no Genjutsu was involved, I would have never pegged it as simple speed. _And, yet, that was all that it had been. It was just pure, unmatched speed of the mind and body coupled with flawless technique and the potential for unaccountable destruction—and all with but a D-rank Jutsu. Truly, Hokage-sama was one scary dude.

Moments passed . . . and a small orange book materialized. Only to disappear once more a second later.

_Isn't there something I should be doing? _he questioned himself.

_Shit! The hospital! The Hokage! The boy! An explanation for our failure! _

The Anbu slapped himself and couldn't help but frown at his own stupidity. _Aren't I supposed to be a genius? _

A few flickers later and he arrived at his destination: one of the ER rooms at the First Konoha Hospital that currently housed an evidently furious Hokage, a distraught and frightened Chief of Medical Staff, multiple med-nins, attendants, and two more Anbu that appeared to desire the walls at their backs to provide protection of some kind from the Hokage's ire—unfortunately for them, the walls had yet to respond.

For a second, the newly arrived Anbu wondered why they were all even allowed to be there. All non-medical personnel were usually ushered out immediately after having been properly chastened for interfering with matters not of their grade (Hokage-sama or not). Then he looked at the operating table. Blinking, he thought, _there is no way. _Slowly and carefully, the Anbu released a probing chakra pulse focusing in on the boy that laid unmoving and utterly pale on top of it. There was . . . _nothing. _Absolutely _nothing. _

He wished, at that moment, to be somewhere else. Somewhere very far away from where he was—somewhere far away from the Hokage and the rising tides of all-encompassing intent to _murder, mutilate, shred, gauge, crush . . . melting skin, bones to ashes, brains to soup, eye balls on a stick . . . the urge to just . . . DIE!_

A deep breath. Another one. And another one. Again, and again. _Just breathe! _

_I'm fine . . . now. I'm fine. An—_abruptly interrupted from his thoughts by a scream, he turned his head. There, on the floor, laid most of the medical staff. Not dead . . . just out of it. Scared out of their minds, most likely destined to hours upon hours of nightmares and then days of headaches. One even seemed to have stabbed herself. Fortunately, two med-nins looked relatively well enough able to take care of that. _Well, there is that, I suppose. _

Shaking off the after-effects of the immense killing intent with some effort, he then looked back at his leader, waiting for the inevitable.

* * *

Rage was too mild a definition for what swelled within his heart at that very moment in time. Yes, he had controlled himself and managed to cage his killing intent before having it kill most of the hospital's occupants, but the power of the emotion lessened none at all. It was still there, the fury, just barely contained. For all its inconveniences, however, it did well enough in masking the sorrow that he knew was going to eat at his soul every day following this one.

Schooling his face—or trying to, at least—the Hokage turned to the head of the hospital and asked tersely, "_What happened_, Kanpo-san?" in a tone he had used rarely in his life, usually in prelude to a massacre of enemy shinobi. It wasn't flat, as one would suspect, and it carried no intent behind it—it was simple an unspoken promise of things to come. What those things were, however, was left to the imagination. He liked it that way.

His "victim" seemed to instinctively know this, for he looked more like a recently-released captive of the T&I department than the Chief of Medical Staff. The slightly pale complexion, tensed facial muscles, a tic of the brow, sweat, balled-up fists, and irregular chakra fluctuations were only some of the evidence, but it all still came down to _fear _and possibly guilt (although of that he wasn't so sure of yet). The Chief's mouth opened for a moment, his face uncertain, only for it to close once again. Then, a spark of continuity seemed to light up his countenance, signifying the readiness to proceed.

"Hokage-same," he started with a brief, deep bow, "as you already know, the boy was brought to us earlier this morning by the Anbu to treat a broken leg." His eyes, then, concisely converged on the mentioned boy, only to snap right back to look into Sarutobi's eyes as he continued on, "A regular occurrence, unfortunately, and not something we ever worry about. He heals . . . he _healed _quickly from all matters of injuries, many of which would have felled even the strongest of shinobi. So . . . we did what we could, which mostly bottled down to giving him a quiet place to rest, and left him to heal on his own—as he always had. At the time, he was just fine. The bones were already knitting back together perfectly." A pause as he looked to the side.

The floor was now clear of any unconscious unfortunates and a single med-nin stayed close to the operating table, occasionally running diagnosis of different sorts on the boy. Sarutobi, though, could tell that it was futile. There wasn't a single wisp of chakra, a single bodily function that in any way gave rise to hope. It was over and done with. The anger build. So he pressed it down further. A shuffle brought his attention back to the med-nin in charge of the hospital.

"Nothing seemed out of the ordinary," he continued in a more subdued tone and downcast eyes, "until one of the attendants ran out of his room screaming for help. I arrived slightly later, after my med-nins have already started to try and treat him at the ER. They weren't sure what was happening at first. A broken leg turned life-threatening in a boy tougher than adamantium? It made no sense. Well, until they started to really dig. And what they found . . . Hokage-sama, there was _nothing_ we could do!"

The desperation was almost palpable. The pause unwelcome. "Continue!" Sarutobi roared.

The med-nin flinched and seemed to contemplate running away. Then reason returned and he went on submissively, "There were—well, there were poisons. Many, many poisons. Different kinds. I think half are still unidentified. Maybe some we didn't even catch at all. There were nearly a hundred! There was nothing anybody could do! Nothing!" He paused, gathering himself. A good thing, too, because Sarutobi was starting to lose his patience with the excuses.

"Even just from the poisons that we have already identified, I can safely say that every square inch of the boy was attacked in some way. Every single cell, every single organ. _Everything. _There was even a chakra-conductive poison that seemed to attack his reserves, not to mention the chakra already active in his tenketsu. He lasted a little over a minute before his body simply shut down completely. We tried every technique we thought would help bring him back, but . . . . well, nothing worked." Then he just looked down and kept silent, his body like a statue.

"_That's it, then? That's all, _Kanpo-san?" The rage was becoming more potent, more focused. His tone borderline homicidal.

"Yes, Hokage-sama," was the low-keyed answer, body unmoving.

Sarutobi nodded, mostly to himself, and decided that he wasn't going to take a life in anger simply because . . . well, _because. Time to hear how this was even allowed to happen in the first place, then, _he thought.

"You can go, Kanpo-san . . . and take your med-nin with you."

That was a surprise, judging by the man's incredulous expression. Still, he bowed deeply and signaled for the only other med-nin in the room to follow. In seconds, the Hokage was left alone with two terrified Anbu that were supposed to guard the boy that was now dead and an Anbu that he could admit to himself was one of his favorites—for how long, however, he wasn't sure. Molten rage once again bubbled on the surface of his fragile mentality. It was about ready to be released to punish all those around him, but the tight control still held . . . somehow.

Turning to Dog, a squad leader and the party often-times responsible for assigning guard details, he began, quite coldly, "Dog-san . . . correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you in charge of assigning Anbu guards to watch over Naruto-kun? Were you not given the duty to prevent . . . his death?" Sarutobi paused to watch his Anbu squirm—not in any visible matter, of course, but chakra didn't lie and Dog was quite literally shaking in his Anbu-sanctioned boots. He then finished: "A _death_, I might add, as we all know, that _hasn't _been prevented."

* * *

Yes, Hokage-sama was one scary dude. Why it took so long to affirm that ostensibly obvious fact of life, he didn't know. _It should be written somewhere as law! His very tone of voice should be classified as an S-class Jutsu!_

But, wait, he had been asked a question, right? Yup. So . . . "Hokage-sama, you're right, of course. I was in charge of the assignment, and today was no different in procedure than any other day. Those two behind your back, Hokage-sama, the ones trying to crawl into the wall and possibly disappear for all eternity, were on watch since early morning. They've done this countless of times before and I am fairly certain that this is the first time that anything has happened on their watch." Yeah, that was good enough, wasn't it? What else could he have done, really? _A lot, _he added, _judging by the Hokage's face. _

The Kage was not . . . pleased, it seemed. Quite the opposite, in fact. His jaw worked as if chewing on nails. His eyes a gaze of obliteration. Thankfully, his wrath switched directions and instead centered on the other two Anbu in the room—the ones that were, perhaps, actually somewhat responsible for the day's events.

Dog watched his leader pin the Anbu with a gaze both cold and hot, stoic and furious. It was almost enough to seem unreal, as if a Genjutsu was taking place. That, of course, wasn't the fact. The Hokage deliberately took his time as he crept closer to the objects of his fury. Once standing no more than a foot away, he asked one simple question, emotion barely restrained: "What have you to say for yourselves?" It sounded . . . mundane, the question; and yet it was packed with a subtext so powerful, it might as well have been said out loud: _If your answers aren't satisfactory, I'm going to flay you._

The one of the right, Mouse, somehow managed to find the courage to answer—but not without taking time to collect himself first—"Hokage-sama, please, we don't even know exactly _what happened_! One second we're in position, and then _nothing_. Then we wake up, and the boy's already thrashing around and the med-nin are saying that he's going to die!" That . . . looked to have exhausted the Anbu. He was in complete panic. And his partner wasn't doing much better. _I wonder what's going to happen now . . ._

His answer came as a duet of floor-meets-shinobi. Dog waited, then, to be knocked out as well. Possibly taken to T&I. It never came, however, as the Hokage said, "Take these two to Ibiki-san." He then looked up from the two unconscious Anbu and stared at the last Anbu in the room actually standing. "If I didn't know I could trust you, you would be sent along with them. Now . . . get going. I need a funeral to plan." The Kage's eyes no longer held rage. Now they vibrated with sorrow.

Dog bowed slightly and acknowledged the order, "Hai, Hokage-sama," before settling the two unfortunate Anbu up on his shoulders and flickering away—grateful, at the very least, that he wasn't going to experience Ibiki's idea of tender mercies.

* * *

Continue? Probably yes. Soon. I hope.


	2. Life Continues

**Disclaimer: **2nd time to admit my non-ownership of Naruto and all that it comes with.

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**Life Continues **

It didn't take place at night with dark, cloudy skies overhead and rainfall as companion. There weren't any sings of thunderstorms or high winds. It seemed, in fact, quite the nice day. The sun shone not unlike on any other day, the grass danced in rhythm with the gentle breeze, and the people of Konohagakure no Sato followed their day-to-day patterns that had long ago captured them.

That there was a certain something missing was of no consequence. Truthfully, most of the civilians and a small portion of the shinobi _had_, at first, rejoiced at the disappearance of the village's _number-one-prankster, demon boy, devil child, troublemaker _(the names really could go on); but as the tides of emotions waned, so had memory. The first week was, he reluctantly admitted to himself, one of the best Konoha ever experienced in terms of consumerism. People just . . . purchased and purchased. Ate and ate. Partied and . . . well, partied.

That the death of a six year old boy had been the catalyst of such an occurrence was depressing enough, but to have _shinobi_ participate in such things? It saddened him and angered him at the same time. _His _forces celebrating an event that _he_, _himself _would have given almost anything to prevent? If not for the fortunate fact that only a select few groups of the nin persuasion acted such, even his duty to the village wouldn't have been enough of a deterrent to stop a bloody massacre of his own shinobi forces. Alas, those were the thoughts that had plagued him initially—when in control of his emotions, however, such an act seemed ludicrous to even consider. _And yet . . ._

He sighed deeply, breaking eye contact with the tombstone—because, well, it sure _seemed _to have been staring right back at him. Almost smiling at the idea of a staring contest with a piece of rock, the Hokage looked up at the clear skies. _It seems almost anticlimactic, to have a funeral of an innocent boy on such a beautiful day. I've been around for so long, buried so many loved ones, and yet each one of those funerals seemed so much . . . more. _It was possible, of course, that his memory wasn't as good as it had once been and that all of those funerals were no different than this one. He looked back at fresh grave, just minutes ago finally filled. It was settled, then.

Three weeks was how long it took to go from the assault and death of Naruto to surrendering his body to mother nature and her earth. It usually didn't take that long, but Sarutobi wanted to be _sure_ that the Kyūbi's healing wouldn't suddenly take hold and maybe bring the boy back to life—not to mention making sure that the seal did its part in taking the demon down with its container. The world had, at the very least, a hundred years of peace ahead of it. Blinking, he scowled and thought, _Well, peace from the Ky__ū__bi's destructive tendencies. Not so much from fellow humans, though. _Of this, he was certain.

Turning around, Sarutobi glanced at the pair of people that saw fit to see Naruto off aside from himself: Teuchi and his daughter, Ayame. The man owned Ichiraku's, a small ramen stand that Naruto frequented sacredly after having left the orphanage for good only a few months ago. The boy _loved _that place. He loved the food and, more importantly, he loved the people. Teuchi and Ayame were, perhaps, the only civilians that had held no ill will towards the young jinchūriki. The girl was still young, so he could understand that much, but her father . . . well, he was simply not an idiot that rode the waves of the masses. _If more of them were like him, Naruto would have led a normal life. As things were . . . even youngsters scorned the boy after having been poisoned by their parents' hatred. _

The entire ordeal was despicable. Intellectually, he could understand it to a degree—fear and hatred held logic at bay; and without logic, emotion ruled. At heart, however, Sarutobi despised all those who not only spoke negatively of Naruto, but also took to physical action to express their discontent. _Konoha and its "good-guy" imagine certainly did itself no justice when it decided that it was too good for a jinchūriki. _Nearly letting anger once again take reign, the Hokage persevered and caged the beast that had, for the past three weeks, tried to take control at seemingly random times. _Now is not the time to rage . . . now is the time to mourn. To plan. _

He sent a grateful look to Teuchi for having attended and smiled at the girl (which she seemed unable to return at the time) before taking off.

The ever-present shadows that were his Anbu followed.

* * *

It was never easy to see familiar faces die. Especially those younger than himself. In a perfect world, a father would never have to witness the death of his child. In a perfect world, six year old children wouldn't stay six forever, but grow old and pass away from natural cause. So . . . it hurt. It really hurt to now stand before a freshly dug and filled grave with his arm around his only daughter. He didn't cry. He wouldn't do that. The boy never cried. He rarely ever pouted. There was always a smile on his face, sometimes genuine and sometimes not; but the smile persisted nonetheless. So, Teuchi wouldn't shed a tear. It just didn't seem _right._

Ayame was quiet, her eyes wet and her body still. She was strong. He always knew that, of course. If the death of her mother didn't destroy her, the death of a boy she only knew for mere months wouldn't even dent her. _At least I hope so, _he thought. He looked at her, trying to catch her eye. They never drifted from the stone, though. She just kept staring at it, as if in a trance. Sighing, he turned back to look as well, his mind already closing in on itself.

How did it happen, exactly? When had they started to care for Naruto so much? Teuchi really had no idea. Once day, the boy just appeared and started ordering bowl after bowl of ramen. Again and again. And every day after that, as well. Well, almost every day. He knew that Naruto frequently ended up at the hospital after severe beatings. Usually, even that wouldn't keep him from the stand; but there were times when the damage was just . . . really bad. Bad enough to warrant a couple day's rest before release.

After having learned that Naruto was placed in an apartment to live by himself _for his own safety, _Teuchi thought of adopting him. He was almost going to try, but . . . then he remember Ayame. With how much hate was directed at the boy, he couldn't imagine having some of that reflected on his daughter for having to live with him. Yes, she would probably have been delighted, but then she wouldn't have been thinking of her own safety, either. As much as it had hurt him then, and how much it still hurt him now, Teuchi knew that the safety of his daughter was the first priority. He would sacrifice the lives of a hundred innocent bystander if it meant Ayame's safety.

He knelt down to a knee before the gravestone and said, aloud, "I'll miss you, boy. Give 'em hell, though!"

* * *

_I wonder how many would attend _my _funeral. The Hokage, of course. Maybe a few academy teachers? Half the Anbu. Some fellow Jūnin? Whatever the answer, there sure as hell would be . . . . more. _

He shook his head, almost unable to believe his eyes. _Three people? Really? _It was sad. Sure, the dead didn't care anymore. Sure, no amount of grief would bring them back. Still, it seemed too mundane a funeral for the container of the Kyūbi. On the other hand, he _had_ been an orphan. Sighing (which seemed to happen way too often these days), the Anbu flickered away from his perch on a gargantuan tree that overlooked the cemetery grounds.

It took thirteen super-charged leaps to arrive at his destination: Anbu HQ. He could have gone anywhere he liked. Hell, he could have just found a quiet place to sleep somewhere, but he decided not to temp fate. Even the position of squad-captain only provided a smidgen of protection from the powers-that-be. Mainly, those powers manifested as . . . _Aw, shit– _

The _second _the door closed behind him, he found himself on the ground, a kunai already drawing blood from a cut on his neck and a feminine thigh pressed quite _firmly _into his nether region—the constricting, cold and slimy snakes that bound his limbs only the icing on the cake.

He resisted from _killing her _on the spot and instead took a deep, relaxing breath. Clearing his throat, he began, "You're mental, you know that? If it were anybody else, you'd be dead." Squirming a little to relieve a particular pressure, he continued, "What do you want this time?"

The insane woman currently running her tongue over the kunai to capture the few drops of blood that were there averted her attention to look _deep _into his eyes. It was a gaze of . . . something. He couldn't quite place it, even after all this time. "Well, Dog-kun, you're late," she answered in a tone that could only be classified as _crazy-as-fuck. _"Really late, actually. You were supposed to be here hours ago! Did you forget our _date_?"

Ah . . . yes. He _had _forgotten. He was a busy man, after all. Flexing his muscles and trying to find a more comfortable position—which worked not at all—he said, "Well, you see, the thing is—" The snake-made bindings tensed and squeezed further, making it difficult to breath, much less move a muscle. Breathless, he quickly proceeded with his completely valid excuse, "A black cat, you see . . . it—" _That _was stupid. "Your snakes . . . tell them to back off!" They seemed to be making way into his clothes! _Yup, this is it. I'm being sexually assaulted by an insane chick and her snakes. _Now, the only way to actually fight the woman off would involve actually killing her. He had tried countless of times before, and unless he was aiming to kill, the crazy chick would always come out on top, as she always had.

"But, Dog-kun, a pervert of your caliber should be _enjoying _this!" Her eyes were glossy. Her mouth slightly parted. The kunai again at his throat. She was crazy. That was all there was to it.

"If you don't let me go right this instant, I'm going to show you why I'm a squad leader and why I was made a Jūnin at 13 by driving that kunai up your ass and making you ask for more," was his answer, eyes and tone hard as stone. There were limits, and that one particular slimy snake currently making its way towards his . . . jewels crossed the line.

Except . . .

Her reaction made him want to run from Konoha and never look back. She looked _pleased! _And _aroused. _

_I'm never agreeing to teaching anyone anything every again! Ever! _The "date" was supposed to be a favor—a short lesson on the workings of a particular Genjutsu. _Never again!_

Women were scary.

* * *

Ah, sake! Truly, a gift granted by yami so that humanity could deal with the overabundance of emotion.

Sarutobi enjoyed these times. At home, away from the Hokage tower, surrounded by family and reclining in his favorite chair. With sake at hand, of course. How else would he even begin to relax? How else would he relive the past in his mind without going insane?

He remembered when he first laid eyes on Naruto. He had wondered, then, quite furiously, how to proceed. So many choices, but none looking to be in any way better than the others. All leading towards misery. Sarutobi knew, even then, his village. He knew how they would respond to a container of the Kyūbi after so many lives were lost. And so, there were thoughts of framing the child's death. Those were discounted quite quickly after repercussions were considered if the truth was ever revealed. At the time, Sarutobi needed the village to stand untied and strong. The demon attack had, after all, destroyed a good portion of the village's infrastructure and killed many a shinobi.

He had also considered trying to limit the knowledge of the child's identity to those already in the know . . . which would have been a futile attempt, at best. The rumors had already spread. There was no stopping it. And once the council was called into meeting and the child revealed, Sarutobi's hands were practically tied. They hadn't allowed Naruto to be placed anywhere _but _the orphanage. It was stupid. It made no sense. But, then, the Hokage couldn't rule supreme. It was Konoha's way. And so Sarutobi had no choice but to give in.

Years later, he had attempted to adapt the boy—which, once again, the council stopped from happening. Social services were, after all, a civilian matter. _The civilian council . . . what I wouldn't give to burn them all to crisp. _A foolish dream, that, but the images of burning council members nearly put a smile on his face.

Someone, someday may have the guts to reinvent the entire political system of the village and go against the Daimyo, but it wasn't him. He was tired. Tired of everything. Some days, he considered simply stepping down and the-hell-with-the-village. But . . . no, his duty held firm. His duty to the people. To the ideals. To the history and the future. _To the Land of Fire._

His mind lost focus and drifted away on clouds of nostalgic memory and sake-induced contentment.

* * *

The images weren't going away. Every time he found a way to suppress them, they would just steamroll back into the forefront of his mind, vividly playing themselves over, clip by clip. The emotions that came with those images were confounding. On one hand, there was a sort of disturbance; but, then, there was also . . . _jealousy? _It made little sense to his usually solid and unbreakable state of mind.

Was he into that? Had he repressed his desires throughout all of his life? Sighing and vehemently shaking his head, the Anbu continued on his way, blasting through the recently ever-preset thoughts—and they were quite recent, aged but a few hours. "Ugh." _Maybe I should go see Inoichi? No, no . . . that would be one embarrassing sessions that would leave way too much room for blackmail. _

Entering his office, he made his way to the only "lavish" fixture in the room: his incredibly comfortable chair. Seated behind the desk, the Anbu finally relaxed and let go. There would be time for paperwork later. Maybe the next day, even. Now, it was time to mentally wonder. The last few weeks, had, after all, left quite a few things to consider.

It had all started with the village's Jinchūriki and the unfortunate case of his death. He didn't know the kid, having only seen him a few times, but the circumstances in which the death took place made it his problem . . . unfortunately and unavoidably. The Hokage had ordered a pretty large contingent of the Anbu to visit the T&I department for extended "interviews." Thankfully, none had resisted in any way, so Inoichi and his "mind games"took to the task immediately, without obstruction. It really didn't take very long for the final results: none were guilty of any willful wrongdoings.

The Anbu that were at the time positioned around the hospital hadn't sensed _anything _out of the ordinary. That was all good and well, but the real problem rested with the two that were stationed _inside _the boy's room. From what Inoichi could gather with his mind-delving techniques, the two unfortunates were hit with a Genjutsu of unparallelled strength. They literally had no chance. The Yamanaka had mentioned something about even direct dissection of their living bodies not waking them up from the illusions. So, yeah, that was some powerful stuff, there.

Powerful stuff that had to have come from an Uchiha. There was no other explanation—at least according to resident Genjutsu experts and, of course, the Yamanaka clan. Regrettably, that was really _all _they knew. No other information was forthcoming.

So how did the Hokage expect the Anbu to unveil the assailant (or assailants)? The _only _possible road to truth was a mass interrogation of the entire Uchiha clan—and that was simply infeasible. Even the Hokage could not afford to anger the most powerful and numerous clan in the village. Hell, the continent. So . . . they were at an infrangible impasse.

Still, things were starting to make sense on another front. All those times that the Anbu assigned to guarding Naruto somehow lost track of the boy? Logically, it would seem quite the impossibility. Now, though, looking at it from a fresh perspective . . .

_The Uchiha must have had a hand in it somehow. Of course. _Toma rubbed his forehead, trying to forestall the incoming headache. Sliding down the chair into a more slouching position, his mind wondered:

_What could they have wanted to accomplish? All those chances to kill the container, and yet they do it now, after all these years. Naruto had escaped from the orphanage too many times to count. Had "lost" his Anbu guardians countless of times. Outside help must have been provided. But . . . not for any benevolent reason. So why? Why trick the boy, let him get beaten for years—only to finally dispose of him now? Two forces, then? Two separate entities. Both Uchiha? Not necessarily._

His hand found itself hitting the desk with restrained power. Taking a deep breath, he continued on his merry way, running idea after idea by his own psyche. Trying to puzzle together an incomplete picture with no end in sight.

* * *

Adjusting the mask that identified him as Dog of the Anbu forces and straightening his disheveled attire, he quickly made his exit. Time was of the essence. He had to run _now._ And, so, he did just that. Flickering away with utmost speed, the Anbu quite accidentally broke his Shunshin speed and distance record. He arrived at his destination in moments.

Opening and swiftly locking the door behind himself, the safety of _home_ and its many defenses finally gave way to hope that he may, after all, survive and still stay loyal to Konoha. The last few hours of his life were . . . _implausibly_ _interesting_. And not exactly in a good way, either.

The welcoming party by that crazy snake woman was just the beginning. After he had threatened her with what he would do with that kunai, she . . . _lost her mind! That's what she did! She fucking lost her mind! _Oh, kami, help him.

And then, as the insane Anbu chick was in the process of _poisoning _him to restrict his access to chakra, the fucking commander of the entire Konoha Anbu walked by. He had stopped and just _looked,_ unidentifiable emotions evident in his expression. He gazed for perhaps twenty seconds—and both Anbu on the ground, himself and the crazy snake lady, gazed back. Then . . . _Konoha Anbu Commander Toma just left without a single word! _

_And I was left, harmless and unable to believe the tenacity of a newly assigned Anbu that was really no stronger than a high Ch__ū__nin! How? How had it happened? Why did I let it happen at all? How could I have allowed myself to be left at the mercies of that unstable she-demon? _

The Anbu's mind returned to the _dark place. _Memories came unbidden. Of snakes! And more snakes! And the crazy woman! And . . . and . . . _oh, yami, I'll never be the same again! _

_I think . . . that . . . yes, I would prefer war. Full-on war. Bring it! _

He walked into his bedroom. He stared at the orange book on the bed-stand. _Stared _hard. _Fuck that! _

Dog, Anbu squad leader and one of the most powerful shinobi in Konoha even at his relatively young age of twenty, placed two finger on one of his most beloved possessions to date—_one of the Icha Icha books—_and directed enough chakra into it to mutilate the book beyond recognition.

Then he threw himself at the bed and simply . . . wept.

Out of happiness or sadness, he could not himself say.

* * *

**There was work to be done. Systems to improve upon and mayhap even reform utterly. He would start with the skeletal, then move on to biological, and then finally muscular. It would take time, of course; but time was relative enough not to count in this instance. But, in the meantime, the mind awaits. Yes, the mind would require his help. To restore something as intricate as the brain ****should be a challenge, indeed; but the **_**real**_** challenge would come after—remolding the brain to his preferences. Yes, a challenge, indeed. **

**But there was work to be done. **

**And a mortal to awaken. **

"**Boy." **


	3. Devil Inside

**Disclaimer: **3rd time manually typing this thing. Why not copy&pasta, you ask? Well, it's the principle of the thing. So . . . I do not own Naruto, anything that owns Naruto, and anything owned by Naruto. I do, on the other hand, own a wonderful pair of winter socks that reach my knees.

* * *

**Devil Inside**

As with most things, the passage of time allowed the hurt to dissipate; because although time eventually killed all its disciples, it also mend wounds of the flesh and heart before the final countdown. The sorrow and anger had long past gave way to a passive desire for justice. And it was coming, one way or another.

Two years since _it _occurred. Since the grandson that was not really his grandson met death at the hands of traitors. Oh, yes, he knew now what had happened. He knew the _who. _Even so, the _why _was still as illusive as always. In the end, though, it didn't matter much. The ones responsible were in for a hell of a ride.

Sarutobi Hiruzen, Hokage of Konoha, and admittedly one of the most powerful political figures in all the five nations had planned for this very day vigorously. Success was all but a certainty.

The fact that the approaching "cleansing" wasn't purely an act of retribution, but more so an attempt at keeping the village united and safe was saddening—for it wouldn't have been possible otherwise. If the clan hadn't been designing for betrayal all this time, Naruto's death would have gone unpunished. Fortuitously, however, they _had _illegally connived to split the ruling powers of Konoha to their own advantage; thereby condemning themselves in the eyes of all that were in the know and rendering the Hokage office literally obligated to respond in a decisive matter (which in the shinobi world usually meant "deadly").

He glanced at the antique wall-clock. _It should be starting now. _

The mirthful smile came unbidden.

* * *

_Breathe. Focus on the objective. Remove all nonessential thought. Breathe. Choose targets wisely. Do not hold back. Attack with full intent to kill. Remember why you're doing this. Remember that the village needs you—that the _world _needs you. Breathe . . . _

Eyes closed, mind spinning at inconceivable speeds, Crow of Anbu inhaled deeply one last time before _leaping. _

The mark stood no chance. Blood welled as the tantō was withdrawn from its temporary home made of bone and flesh. Then the Anbu opened his eyes to gaze upon the recipient of his wrath. Crow looked deeply into the eyes of his father as a trickle of blood ran along his chin. The old man looked completely bewildered at first. Then in pain. And then he looked no more. As a droplet of blood reached the floor, Crow was once again in motion.

Layers upon layers of Genjutsu wound seamlessly together, their power amplified and their technique perfected by the Mangekyō Sharingan in his possession. It would be so easy, now.

The council meeting room stood still. From the assistants to the guards and the council members—all stood or sat frozen in their spots. His father was only the beginning.

_Let the ablution begin, _ran through his mind as he set himself to summon the only companions that were to aid his current mission.

* * *

It had started with but an unease. Just something twirling around in the back of her mind. She didn't know what it was, why it was happening, or what she should do. Ignored, then, the feeling went.

Until it grew a minute later. It had become almost tangible in its clarity. Unable to resist the call, she now found herself in full sprint, heading towards the council chambers of the Uchiha clan. _Why do I feel as if the world has just come to an end? _she questioned herself. It wasn't anything concrete, but there was a feeling of finality in the air almost thick enough to touch.

Then she stood before the massive doors that blocked her entrance to the council room. The ex-Jōnin ignored the two stationed Uchiha guards, filtering our their protests and instead took to the task of opening the door—which ended in failure. The door was sealed to the high heavens. Blood-seals, chakra-recognition seals, pattern-seals . . . and a few more that were unknown to her mediocre knowledge of Fūinjutsu. _I'm not getting through, _she admitted.

"Mikoto-sama, council is in session," one of the guards said, finally speaking up solidly. "It would be unwise to interrupt."

She looked at him, distaste on her face and in her tone undisguised as an answer came, "Don't you think I know that? Something's wrong! Something terrible has happened. We need these doors open, now!"

The guard blinked, confused, before looking at the door and sending his chakra outwards in an attempt to either facilitate or refute her claim. Moments later, his attention snapped back to Mikoto, weary Sharingan eyes in full effect. "I'm sorry, Mikoto-sama, but there really doesn't seem to be anything wrong." He shrugged, as if powerless. "And even if there _was _something . . . the only people that could open those doors are currently _inside._"

She was quiet, thinking. _That's some terrible fucking planning, there. _

"What if w—" the incomplete vocalized thought vanished into nothingness as the doors opened and her eyes found themselves spinning out of control, the Sharingan waking from slumber all on its own—blood canopied the room, limbs laid separated from their owners, and her _son _stood in the midst, an awful smile on his lips. Her _thirteen year old son! _Her baby!

"Itachi-kun?" Mikoto probed, her voice thin as fishing wire.

Her son looked up from his work, finding her gaze, and all she could see at that moment was _sorrow. _His eyes deep pools of sadness unlike anything she had ever seen. Then it was all gone, and his entire being radiated power and reticent malice. It was unreal.

"Mother," he answered tonelessly, "what brings you here?" He stood unmoving above the body of his father . . . her husband.

"Why?" was the only question that she could manage vocalizing.

The response came immediately: "Why, to test my power, of course. What better way than the great Uchiha clan?" Itachi's manner was blunt, as if no other reply could even be considered. His attention, then, was caught on something behind her back. An instant later, she found him looking at her again with those hellish eyes. "And now, mother dear . . . I shall continue."

Mikoto didn't see him move.

The sweet embrace of oblivion came swiftly with but a glimpse of an obsidian-colored feather.

* * *

"Hokage-sama! There has been an attack on the Uchiha!"

Sarutobi feigned surprise for the benefit of his Anbu before quickly flickering away in a Shunshin.

A minute later, he stood on the grounds of the Uchiha clan compound, watching as med-nins hurried from corpse to corpse, from injured to injured. Watching as more came in to assist. It was futile, of course, as those who were meant to die were dead and all the others were just fine. Appearances, however, had to be kept.

He watched as his Anbu gathered around him, waiting for orders. As expected of the Hokage after such an event, he gave them their orders: "Declare martial law. Choose the best trackers we have at our disposal and team them up with combat squads. Find the ones responsible!" The tone portrayed anger and command, his face distorted to suit the situation.

"Hai, Hokage-sama!" resonated throughout the clearing before the forces departed.

They would find nothing. Itachi would already be gone. Even if by some miracle a team _would_ manage to find him, there was little worry about. He could take care of himself.

Looking over to the right, where his Anbu Commander stood, he questioned, "What do we know so far?"

Towa kept to the script and showed no emotion as he recited what had long before been planned . . .

* * *

Unable to look away, he eyed the bodies in the clearing. The worst were the ones with missing arms, legs, or heads—his mind could only begin to imagine how much it would hurt to have a hand cut off. Others looked like they were just sleeping, ready to wake up at any time. He knew, though, that they weren't just asleep. He knew that they were dead. It scared him senseless.

The shivers finally came, and with them the sobs. His mother's arms helped only a little. It was still unsafe—he felt as if nothing could ever make him feel safe again. _Why, brother? Why kill father? Why kill my friends? _The boy's body shook uncontrollably as he cursed himself for his weakness. _I have to be strong! I'm an Uchiha! I'm eight and a half already!_

_Real Uchiha don't cry . . . _

He only cried harder.

He felt his mother's arms tighten, heard her whisper something; but he paid no attention. There were only the bodies and the betrayal on his mind.

Even so, he was an Uchiha _fabled for greatness_. They had all said so, all those times. His mother, his father, and even his brother. So the young survivor steeled his resolve, gaining strength from his uncertain, but undoubtedly powerful, emotions.

Sasuke Uchiha's world would never be the same, but if there was one thing he would do with his life, it was going to be the righting of wrongs—of this, his young mind was sure.

The tears stopped, his body still.

* * *

Echoes of moonlight crawled upon the crimson lifeblood of humankind as earth accepted the offering, absorbing all that was given and always wanting more. It seemed somewhat more poetic than the vision of pallid, lifeless, remains that were now no more than decaying constructs of flesh and blood—no longer human, no longer different than the earth upon which they drew their last breaths. Logically, then, her eyes snapped from one painting to another, in wonderment of how the dead could be so much more beautiful than the still-living.

A hand, severed at the wrist and coiled out, laid near her bare foot. The seemingly well-kept nails and the slender contours signified female, while muscle definition and callous knuckles pointed to shinobi. The owner was most likely dead, if the what the Anbu had said was true: the dead were _very _dead, the survivors _very _alive. That reminder cut any potential hesitation off at the roots, so she proceeded to bend down, picking the hand up by its thumb.

It was cold and semi-stiff, the crimson lifeblood still trickling down to earth drop by drop. Disgust, which she knew should be present, wasn't even a consideration. It was wrong, of course. It was crystal clear in her mind what emotions and reactions _should _exhibit themselves at a moment like this, but _admiration_ for such a clean cut was front-most. Unacceptable, she knew. Strange that she could only think of what sort of blade could carve such art. Bringing it up over her head and holding it still in place as to create the perfect silhouette with a backdrop of the moon, she thought with curiosity, _How would it look on a full moon, I wonder? _

The girl's eyes tracked a singular coalition of blood as it sang for freedom and departed its home, making the journey from foregone flesh and onto her own face in a split-moment. Upon contact with her cheek, she lowered the hand and immediately grew bored. The piece of dead flesh no longer held her attention as it was thrown to the earthly surface upon which she stood with abandonment.

Fingers reaching for the line of liquid lightly splattered across her right cheek, her gaze found an Anbu some distance apart that appeared to be observing her. The mask was that of a Dog's, one she remembered seeing at least once before. Spurned by some unknown desire, the girl slowly used her right hand to disrupt the crimson artwork which canvased her cheek—only to seconds later delicately lick and suck the appealing colors from her fingers. The taste was unique, neither good nor bad.

The Anbu turned away.

The girl grew bored and brought her arms back to her sides.

She looked left, zeroing in on the body on the ground. Her father's face was twisted in pain, the slit throat apparently the cause.

Her mother was somewhere out there. Dead, of course. As was her sister.

A brother, too.

At least there was an upside to all of this: she no longer had to hide, lie, or act.

Yes, it was _quite_ _a_ _wonderful day_.

_From within the womb of a mistress_

_Brought forth by the seed of a headsman_

_From within the safety of the fort_

_A shadow slithered across the earth_

_And upon the night of great treachery_

_The shadow dealt death quite cleverly_

_Itachi-san, _she thought, _I will have to convey my gratitude to you one day in the future._

* * *

It crept him out. Really, seriously, without a joke . . . freaky as shit and nothing less. He had previously thought that his tormentor, the crazy snake lady, was truthfully the only being in the universe (aside from the Hokage) that could send shivers down his spine. And, yet, here was what appeared to be a ten year old girl whose very demeanor sent spikes of _danger _into his mind. A direct contradiction, really, to her ethereal appearance. The girl looked like a freaking _princess _with her long, black as void, perfectly groomed, straight hair; nearly albescent skin which the moonlight seemed to love; and the face of an angel—but the eyes of a demon. The eyes, they always said, were pathways to the soul; and in some respect, they had been right.

The eyes, however, didn't _actually _express emotion, intent, or personality. The Anbu were trained to read faces, and the eyes had nothing to do with anything. The dozens of facial muscles, however, did. People sometimes mistook the ability to read a person's intentions and true nature by paying attention to body language and facial muscles with the ability to _read _someone's eyes. The honest truth was that eyes only appeared to convey information because the surrounding muscles were some of the most emotion expressive of the entire body.

And . . . Dog saw in that girl a true sociopath. _Should I mention this to anyone? _he wondered.

_Nah . . . let the Uchiha take care of their own._

Turning his thoughts away from the disquieting youth, the Anbu once more raked his eye across the clearing, taking note of . . . nothing much in particular. He didn't exactly have a job to do right now. His squad, recently woken from sleep and put to work in-village, was taking care of all the necessary tasks. He, himself, as the captain of said squad . . . was admittedly way too lazy. Plus, he had to stay away from _any _place that could potentially hold the crazy snake lady.

_!_

_!_

_That's . . . isn't that . . . !? _

_Oh, kami, that's my danger sense!_

He made a 180 degree turn, hand at his kunai pouch.

Dog's eye strained as it searched for any sign of danger. Then, from behind a couple of med-nin, he saw _it. _

_P-p-pur—_

_P-purple!_

_Purple hair!_

_!_

Speed records were broken for the umpteenth time.

* * *

**For two years he had kept the body alive on nothing more but his own chakra, keeping vital functions to the barest minimum as to avoid the necessity of breathing and eating. During that time, the body evolved under his tutelage; improving and sometimes completely reconstructing certain properties. All said and done, through molding particles many times smaller than protons, he affected everything from the cardiovascular system to the reproductive system—and, of course, everything in between. **

**It wasn't as effortless as he had first assumed, though. The seal was quite tricky, after all—its ingenuity quite apparent in the very fact that it actually held his entire being at bay. After profound inquisitory examination, however, even a seal that had been originally powered by the Shinigami stood little chance against an entity such as himself. **

**Further improvement would be tricky nonetheless. There was a limit set on the seal that he could not even touch. Yes, Kurama _had _gotten _around _it multiple times, but never _through _it, and that little inconvenience kept him from simply releasing all of his stored chakra, transforming the boy's body into an indestructible manifestation, and leveling those responsible for his capture. Alas, it was not to be. At least not yet . . .**

**As things were, even with all the experience and power at his disposal, the boy's young age, coupled with the seal's adamant firewalls, kept him from altering the body further in bounds and leaps. It would be slow going from then on. Maybe not until his container was ready to finally step out back into the world. **

**For now . . . there was still the mind. **

**Ah, yes, Naruto's mind: a contradiction of epic proportions. At times, the youngling was terrifying with his ability to quite literally _split _his own mind into countless of individualistic segments, each fully capable of self-operation and yet still (somehow) all conforming to the original—in real-time. Kurama himself, an ancient demon of ages long gone with powers far surpassing any single nation (unless Fūinjutsu were to be involved), couldn't duplicate the boy's act. **

**Other times, however, Naruto was so . . . human. All the meddling and all the crafting, and yet the container still retained a powerful sense of self. It shouldn't have been like so. The plan was to start with a blank slate and mold the mind into a servant of a kind. Naruto was to be just a repository for information and a willing powerful body for eventual possession. Unfortunately, the boy's will had proven to be an obstacle. **

**Nothing seemed to work. Granted, all attempts were subtle enough as not to alarm him, but there still should have been more to show for all the work Kurama put in. At the moment, the boy was excavating through the Kyūbi's memories and knowledge (without having access to anything particularly important or self-incriminating) in search for . . . something. Kurama didn't much care for the boy's activities at this point.**

**Once the body was completely ready and the mind empty of resistance, he would bring it back to life on all counts. Followed by an output of his own chakra so sudden and so powerful that Kurama would be set free one way or another. It would be easiest, of course, if the seal were to simply break or loosen to the point of ineffectiveness; but that would be wishful thinking. Another outcome, the more likely, would revolve around burning the boy's mind into crisp and then stepping right in, taking control. The third potential result would bring upon similar effects, but by different means: that if the seal stays tight and the boy's mind doesn't burn, Kurama could always simply threaten the boy into submission (and eventual destruction of the seal) by giving him a taste of _true _pain. **

**Whichever way it happens, the end would bring upon Kurama's release. The play has been, after all, been planned from the moment he woke inside the seal's prison. Naruto's "death"fast- forwarded the entire operation by damaging the seal in some way that he hadn't yet discovered. **

**Did it matter, really? **

**Freedom was basically here. He had lived for immeasurable eons—what's a few human months or years?**

* * *

Images of death and devastation colored the space, smells of war stung the air, and sounds of the wretched reverberated throughout. It wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last. Countless of other similar instances woke from rest in the back of the mind to assault him anew. It didn't touch him. He had seen it all many times. He had _felt _it all through the years.

Each battle had been unique, each one a lesson on warfare so unlike the last. And there was a lesson in even the most insignificant of particulars: how that certain shinbo held his kunai as he stood atop a tall tree in an attempt to scout ahead; how the boots of another made contact with the ground, even at full sprint; how the eyes of yet another screened a non-hostile area—and so many more.

He had learned the most, however, from conflicts resulting in the most bloodshed. That's where the true teachings laid. Logically, then, those were the ones he was most interested in and therefore the most brought up.

Yet . . . as he looked at his current surroundings—the bodies, the blood, the pieces of human flesh—he couldn't help but feel as if something was _missing. _

Some emotion that he wasn't feeling and yet _should._

Somet—

Concerns with his own emotions vanished into nothingness.

Blinking, his mind clear, the scene of war was once more the focus of his attention.


End file.
